Sleepy Eskimo Kisses Are The Best Things Ever
by MissDizzyD
Summary: "So, in a distressing turn of events, Stiles is waking up a bed that is not his own. Alrighty then." Just some cute fluff based off one of prettiestalpha's drawings on Tumblr.


_Shit's going down in the TW fandom today, but that will not stop me posting my work so screw you ClevverTV (what an ironic name for a bunch of dumb-ass dicks). On Tumblr I am imtheanomaly (for general multi-fandom shit) and missdizzyd (for fanfic-specific stuff). Lots of love to you all as always._

_Dizzy xx_

**Sleepy Eskimo Kisses Are The Best Things Ever**

The sheets beneath Stiles' torso are so much softer than normal. That's his first clue that he is definitely not in the bed that he normally sleeps (and later wakes up) in. The second clue is that he can hear a door opening several feet from his head that is neither the _squeeeee-clunk _of his bedroom door nor the _urrrrrrrr-click _of the door to his en suite. He shifts his arm a little until it's under the pillow and… Nope. His pistol isn't there either.

So, in a distressing turn of events, Stiles is waking up a bed that is not his own. Alrighty then. His first night of being able to legally drink whatever he wants and he gets so smashed that he can't even remember whose bed he's in or what happened in said bed. _Fuck_.

Stiles sighs and buries his face even deeper into the, quite frankly, _heavenly _pillow only to cut off all movement half a second later when a warm, solid pressure lands on his uncovered ankle.

"I know you're awake," a soft voice murmurs indulgently and _holy fucking shitballs on a stick_ that voice right there? Yup, that's Derek Hale, Alpha extraordinaire, recluse and missing person for at least a fortnight so far, casually gripping Stiles' ankle like it makes any sense whatsoever.

"Screw you," Stiles grumbles back, but he sits up, keeping the covers wrapped around him in a toga/nest style that keeps him swaddled in what, at second sniff, is definitely Derek smell and it smells freaking delicious. "You've been gone for weeks, what the hell?" He asks near unintelligibly. "We looked everywhere for you but… Nothing. And now, I have no freaking idea where I am or what I'm doing. The last I remember was deciding to drink an entire bottle of JD and now you're here. So. Did you abduct me? Did we fuck? Explain. Please?" The last word comes out as a whimper as Derek shuffles closer along the edge of the bed and puts his face just inches away from Stiles' with a soft smile that is a completely new look for him. Crap, he's too hung over for this.

"Calm down," Derek says gently, briefly brushing the backs of his fingers against Stiles' right cheek. "We didn't… _You know_. And I didn't abduct you. _You _found _me_," he grins a little. "I did everything I could to hide, but you're too smart for me."

"Huh?"

"I needed some time alone. After… everything," Derek takes a deep breath and smiles a wry little smile. "Guess I should've known you'd find me."

"Wait, so. Where are we? Fuck, I didn't drive did I?" He asks, horrified. Christ, it's lucky he's not become one with a tree somewhere.

"There was a bus ticket in your jacket pocket," the Alpha replies, pointing over to a small desk in the corner where Stiles' red plaid hoodie, ratty old jeans and overshirt are folded on the back of a chair, next to the wall of windows, through which the view is spectacular.

"Are you trying to tell me," Stiles starts, eyes wide as he gazes out the window, "That I got a fucking _bus _from Beacon Hills… To San Francisco?" Through the ceiling high windows, Stiles can see Golden Gate Bridge, bathed in sunlight, traffic queued bumper-to-bumper all down the length of it. "Dude that's like a four hour trip. How the fuck did I even find you here? Did I just wonder round San Fran until I stumbled upon the right building?"

"I'm not sure. The concierge rang me at three o clock this morning telling me I had a guest," Derek chuckles, a low noise that sets off butterflies in Stiles' stomach that are so strong he wants to fall into Derek and hug him until he's forcefully removed. "He then requested that I go and 'quiet you down' because you were whining about having to search for the love of your life on your birthday."

Stiles feels his face drain of blood as his head pounds.

"Happy belated birthday, by the way." Derek smirks, leaning forward to press a quick, chaste kiss to Stiles' bottom lip. Stiles can't do anything but look dopily at him, eyes half lidded in a way that probably makes him look like a stoner, as Derek pulls back just far enough to rub their noses together.

Stiles gives up and throws himself at the guy, calling it a late birthday present to himself.


End file.
